by Jason Gurley
Stacy opens the trunk of the Corsica. It illuminates from within.
Both children jump back.
Come and see, she says.
• • •
I'm not going in until you tell me what's --
Henry interrupts Clarissa. This is awesome!
He darts up the solid trash pile and peers into the trunk of the dilapidated Corsica. The interior of the trunk has been torn away and resculpted into a smooth metal funnel. Just inside the mouth, Henry can see the first of several rungs emerging from the wall. The rungs appear to be part of the wall, not something bolted on afterward.
There is a gently trembling light emerging from the tunnel.
Henry, I don't know if we should, Clarissa says.
Stacy interjects. This is perfectly safe. I give you my word.
Yes, but who are you? Clarissa asks. You sound... maybe not real.
Henry excitedly says, Are you a robot? Are you seriously like a robot?
My name is Stacy. And I can see that you're a little nervous, Clarissa. Let me provide you with some context, so that you can make the best decision for yourself.
How did you know my name? Clarissa demands.
Stacy does not tell her the truth -- that she quickly scanned a series of dubiously-protected databases for the faces of girls between the ages of ten and fourteen, and matched Clarissa's face to a yearbook photo from her last recorded grade completed. Instead, she says, I know all the children in the world, Clarissa.
She applied the most benevolent voice filters possible to that sentence, but Clarissa appears even more appalled.
That is seriously creepy, she says. Henry, don't go in there. This feels wrong.
Henry is already throwing a leg over the trunk.
Henry! Clarissa warns.
I will return him safely, Stacy says to Clarissa. I promise.
And the trunk lid closes over Henry.
• • •
At the bottom of the ladder, Henry looks back up towards the surface. It's dark, and he can't even see the inside of the Corsica's trunk above him.
Come, Henry, Stacy says.
Stacy's avatar is visible on the far wall, bobbing gently.
Is that you? he asks. You're a talking lightbulb?
I'm much more than that, Stacy says. This is just how I choose to show myself to you. Come with me, please.
He hesitates. Is Clarissa okay?
Stacy converts a wall of the entry chamber to video. Henry can see the junkyard clearly. The camera must be on one of the fence posts surrounding the yard. It's focused on Clarissa, who is standing in the same place, staring at the trunk. She plunges her fingers into her hair and rocks from one foot to the other, clearly distressed.
She's upset, Henry says. Can I talk to her?
I'll turn on the audio feed, Stacy says.
-enry! Clarissa's voice calls. Henry! Come out of there!
I'm okay! Henry says.
Clarissa stops rocking. What?
I'm okay, he repeats.
Clarissa looks confused. I can't hear you. Henry?
Stacy says, Perhaps speak more loudly.
I'M OKAY, Henry shouts. CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?
Clarissa claps her hands over her ears.
Perhaps more quietly, Stacy suggests.
Is that better? he asks.
Clarissa drops her hands. What's in there? Are you okay? Come out now, okay? I'm scared.
Henry starts to speak, but Stacy interrupts.
Henry can leave any time, Clarissa, Stacy says. But if he leaves now, that's it. I won't open the car again.
Wait, Henry says. Is there more? I want to see more!
Clarissa says, Let him out. Please? Let him out. Henry, come out!
Henry looks at the video wall. Can she see me? he says quietly.
No. There's no external video display, Stacy says.
Okay, he says.
Henry? Clarissa asks. What's going on?
Clarissa, he says. I'm going to stay for a little while. I promise I'll come back out.
He looks around the room for the source of Stacy's voice. You are going to let me out, right?
Of course, Stacy says.
She's going to let me out in a little bit, okay? Henry says.
Clarissa looks uncertain. Should I wait?
This may take awhile, Stacy says to Henry.
She says it might take--
I heard her, Clarissa says. How long?
Stacy answers. There is much for Henry to see. Perhaps you should return tomorrow.
I'm not really comfortable with this, Clarissa says.
Henry, we should continue, Stacy suggests.
I'll come out tomorrow, Henry says.
What about your parents?
Um, he says, uncertainly. I don't know?
Clarissa says, You know they'll be upset. They'll call the police.
What do I do? Henry asks Stacy.
Who is your best friend? Stacy asks.
I am, Clarissa answers from outside.
Who else? Stacy asks. Clarissa is not the right solution.
Hey! Clarissa shouts.
Henry thinks. Well, me and Boyd Trillby are okay friends.
Stacy says, One moment.
Her avatar flickers out, leaving the room empty except for Henry and Clarissa on the video wall.
Clarissa? he says.
I think you should come out, Henry, she says. This worries me! What if this is a trap? What if someone in there likes to eat little kids?
Are you okay? he asks.
Do I sound okay? she shrieks. Come out!
Stacy's avatar blooms on the wall next to the video. No need to worry about your parents, she says. They have no objections to you spending the night at Boyd's house.
How did you --
She interrupts. Henry, we must be going now. Clarissa, I will return him to you tomorrow morning at this time.
Clarissa stomps her foot. Hey, I don't --
The video wall goes dark. At the same moment, a wall across the room separates to reveal an elevator. The inside is padded with blankets.
That looks scary, Henry says.
It's a service elevator, Stacy says. The other elevator is for Mr. Glass, and he will notice if it is used.
Mr. Glass the missing man? Henry exclaims.
But Stacy only says, Henry. Come.
He steps into the elevator, and the doors hiss shut behind him.
• • •
Henry? Clarissa says. Henry? Strange robot lady? Hello?
She tentatively climbs the garbage pile. The Corsica rests innocently there, its trunk closed, most of its windows punched out.
Clarissa knocks on the trunk. Henry?
She waves her hands in the air, crossing them in front of her face. Hello? Henry? Hey! Come out!
But there is only silence.
Henry is gone.
The Recluse
In a slip in a marina in Monaco, bobbing gently on the glittering waters of the Mediterranean Sea, is a two hundred thirteen-foot yacht. Its decks have not been walked on since its christening. Its staterooms have never been occupied. Its hull has never passed over a single reef.
The ship's name is Sea of Glass.
Steven had it designed and built because that's what tech billionaires did when they made their first billion. They bought big boats. And on their first night of ownership, they threw large parties, attended by large personalities. And if all went well, by the end of the night they were slightly less than billionaires.
Steven never threw that party.
Steven threw up in his bathroom at the very idea of such a party.
Then he wiped his mouth, splashed some water on his face, changed out of his board meeting attire and into no clothes at all, and fell asleep on the sofa watching very old reruns of Six Feet Under, which just reminded him of being a teenager.
He has always struggled with the expectations of being unbelievably rich. It's not something he talks
about. The average human being doesn't respond well to the complaints of a rich man.
The average human being doesn't understand the burdens of a rich man.
The average human being would happily accept those burdens without realizing just how heavy they are.
When he was twenty-four, Steven attended a birthday party for Alexander Sharpe. Steven was invited to the party by the chief technology officer from Google. I hate parties like this, the woman had confessed to Steven. They make me nervous.
Steven had sensed a kindred spirit in her, but disliked people so much that he found it impossible to follow that perception up with an actual friendship.
The Sharpe party was the beginning of Steven's disengagement from society. Steven was relatively unknown in 2012. Most of the partygoers did not know him, and would not have pegged him as the most important person in the room. Nobody knew that in just three years, he would change the course of human interaction forever.
Not that anybody would have cared. It was 2012. Facebook had recently gone public. Apple had survived the loss of its mentor. Sharpe had turned a failed social experiment into the year's next big technology explosion.
But Steven had met another young tech fellow named Cerrano Badeh, who had seen in Steven a wet, quivering lump of dough that, perhaps, he could form into something notable.
The women here, Cerrano had said to him, are attracted to the smell of ink and paper. They want money. Do you see that man over there?
Steven followed Cerrano's pointing finger and saw a man with thinning hair and a considerable gut leaning against the bar. The man was sipping a tumbler of something golden-colored. His back was to Steven.
That man, Cerrano said, could have any woman here he likes. Any woman! Can you imagine that power?
Steven shook his head. He must be rich?
Rich is too easy a word, Cerrano said. The man is money itself. He owns three islands. Islands, my friend. Islands make the women glisten with anticipation.
Steven had never seen a woman glisten with anticipation.
The man at the bar hefted himself off of his elbows and straightened his jacket. A woman, previously hidden by the man's bulk, was suddenly revealed at his side. She wore a dress smaller than Steven had ever seen, with tasteful heels, and her dark hair spun down from a pile in ringlets.
Cerrano noticed Steven looking. She is beautiful, right?
She is, Steven agreed.
Her name is Lyn, with one N. She went to high school with me, in a little town called Weed, in the far north of California. Nobody lives in Weed, man. People pass through Weed and laugh about its name. Then she came to the Bay, like I did. But while I came with ideas, she came to meet men with ideas. She does well for herself. What she is wearing, those men paid for. What she drives, the same.
She's a prostitute? Steven asked.
She would slap you for that, Cerrano answered. No, she is an accessory. That's what she calls herself. An accessory.
Like an escort?
Perhaps, Cerrano said. She will never tell. She signs personal confidentiality agreements for every man she is with. The things she must know, my friend. One day, she could probably start a company that will be better than every other one, ever. She is smart enough.
I guess, Steven said. What are you saying?
That women like Lyn say something about the men they are attached to, Cerrano said. If there is a Lyn on your arm, you are a big deal in this town. If there is a Lyn on your arm, the investors will want to talk to you the next morning. You won't have to lift a finger.
Huh, Steven said.
• • •
Steven had reluctantly allowed Cerrano to arrange an accessory for him for the next event he attended. He had watched the fat man and Lyn all night. Lyn was a tasteful plus one. The fat man was not groping her mindlessly, was not pushing her out the door to get back to his apartment. Whatever happened after they left the party was not teased for all to observe.
The event was a dinner for the valley's top visionaries. Cerrano was there, and had brought an accessory of his own, so that Steven would feel comfortable.
She's not really an accessory, Cerrano had whispered to Steven. She's Silvia, my sister-in-law. But she works, right?
That's weird, Steven said.
People know me, so no investors will be calling me tomorrow. They know I'm a good number two, not a number one. They'll call me when a new startup needs a face with contacts. That's what I'm good at. But ideas? I don't have the ideas. Not like you do.
I don't have an idea, Steven protested.
Oh, but you do. I've heard that you do. People can tell. They're curious who will find out what your idea is first.
There's no idea, Steven repeated.
Ah, say what you want, Cerrano said. How is your date?
Date?
Accessory, date, escort, whatever you prefer.
Oh, Steven said. She's okay.
Okay, right. Cerrano shook his head. Just be nice to her, okay.
Don't you think accessory is a terrible word for them? Steven asked. It's completely demeaning. It reduces them to --
To what? Tits that hang on your arm? Cerrano waved him off. They gave themselves the name. You think of a better one, you let me know.
Steven's plus one, Talisha, was in the ladies' room with Cerrano's sister-in-law when the lights dimmed and the host walked to the podium. A room full of guests went quiet. In the dark, the sound of silverware clinking on plates as the attendees sawed at their filets and prime rib.
Talisha returned and took a seat, softly resting her hand on the back of Steven's neck as she did so.
He leaned over and said, Is Talisha your real name?
She smiled patiently at him. Of course.
I've never heard it before. Are you sure it's not a --
A what? Her face was pink was amusement.
Never mind, he said.
A stripper name? she asked.
I wasn't going to say that, he had said, embarrassed.
It's nothing like that. It's my grandmother's maiden name.
Oh, he said.
And then he had been distracted by her. The dim room, all eyes on the host, afforded him the opportunity to stare just a little. She was small and exotic-looking, though he couldn't quite tell if she was of Asian descent or Latin. Talisha didn't sound like a name of either culture, he thought. Maybe she's lying, he thought. Why wouldn't she lie to me? he thought.
He wondered if her fee for the evening included sex.
He looked at Cerrano, who looked back at him and mouthed, Fucking hot, man.
Steven looked uncertain. Cerrano was right. He thought of asking Cerrano about the sex arrangement, but couldn't bring himself to do so. And it worried him that Talisha might expect it.
Her fee for the night was eleven thousand dollars.
What if she made a pass at him when they left the party?
What would he do?
He wondered if other men who paid for their dates worried about such things. No, he decided. Men who paid probably wanted their money's worth.
He had a sudden vision of Lyn and the fat man standing in front of the window of a very expensive hotel room. Well, the fat man was standing, and Lyn was on her knees.
Steven had never --
Talisha chose that moment to rest her hand lightly on Steven's right knee.
Steven, in a fit of nervousness, threw up on the table.
• • •
But Cerrano had been right.
Steven had sent Talisha home with his apologies, and had promised to double her fee. He was humiliated. Only a few people had actually noticed -- in the dark, some heard him, but not many saw who actually vomited during the host's introductory remarks.
The next morning, Steven and his business partner were invited to pitch ideas to three different venture firms.
By week's end, they had received initial funding of twenty million dollars.
Steven was on his way.
He stopped sleeping.
He wrestled with his appetite.
He lost weight and worried his investors.
He parted ways with most of his friends.
He objectively studied his life and calculated the moments at which he appeared to be most happy. None of them, to his surprise, involved expensive toys or high-powered friends. While he liked the idea of women, actually being around them seemed to subvert his own nature, so he categorized women as an unpleasant distraction.
His most pleasurable moments involved his empty apartment, a stack of books, take-out food, and video games.
It cost him millions of dollars and several years of image-building to realize that all he really wanted was to stay home, far away from just about every other human being on Earth.
That's when he began thinking about the space station.
• • •
It was just a fanciful dream at first. Not much separated it from the other extravagances he had believed he wanted. What was a yacht if not a floating space station? But the yacht was designed to be enjoyed by many, many people. It was supposed to drop anchor at party beaches and rich casinos.
The space station Steven daydreamed about was even bigger than the yacht... but designed for just one human being.
It wasn't until his annual re-reading of Earth Abides that he began to imagine the space station in its proper context.
As a safe home for the last survivor of the human race.
The Stowaway
Where are we going? Does someone live here? What is this place for? Is it a secret laboratory? Is it a secret agent club? Is it a secret weapons bunker? Is the President here? Does she know about this place? Is Mr. Glass a spy? Is Mr. Glass going to take over the world?